Dear Old Tom
by SorridoSole
Summary: Tom Riddle is clawing his way to power, murdering anyone in his path and leaving a bloody trail. An old school friend is nothing to stand in his way.


Here a man stood in front of her, cold and strong, his wand barely quivering as it jested at her chest. Would he be so kind, she wondered, as to kill her quickly, and not let her writhe on the floor in pain, humiliation, disbelief? Would he remember her as a pathetic barely living thing beat up on the floor, or would he remember years ago, when they were partnered in transfiguration class, and they ate lunch together near the lake? What about when he returned to school with sharp eyes, and she was the only one who was smart enough not to question it, the one who figured it all out, but kept her mouth shut, the one who knew he was dark from the moment she learned he was a parselmouth just by the way he said it, and perhaps a moment before, yet she never said a thing. Would Tom remember her for who she was, did he even recognize her? Was she so expendable that she could be another corpse along his bloody road? She hadn't realized she had been speaking allowed, she hadn't realized he had lowered his wand, she hadn't realized that he crouched to the ground, and leaned forward, to look her in the eyes with his scarlet soul.

"Well, you haven't changed a bit." Tom hissed. His teeth her bared. "I should have known you would have taken over the family business."

He was referring to the shop, on the floor of which she now lay. It had been in her family for generations, and yes, Tom should have remembered it was hers before he shot hexes through her store left and right. Had he remembered, perhaps they could have worked out an agreement, she would have given him whatever he wanted from the back room behind the portrait of her grandfather. Now that he had knocked her down, antagonized her, and shown her the blatant disregard of a street worthy scum, she was about to do no such thing but go down fighting. Hence, why she did the following;

She spit in his face.

And he laughed. the son of a mudblood laughed at her until his laugh echoed through the empty shop, with its drawn shades and its locked doors. He laughed until it sounded like he was crying, and then halted. The silence smother her in fear.

"Miss Delilah." He said, turning on his heels and moving but two paces from her sprawling legs. He kicked the remnants of a book beyond his path. "If you were any other person, any one at all, I would have found that extremely offensive."

"No doubt I'd be dead before you so much as giggled." Delilah pushed herself to her feet. Her hand felt empty without her wand. Her eyes darted around.

"Oh, no doubt at all. Perhaps I've become sentimental. I saw Mason last week. You remember our good friend Mason?" He laced his own wand through his fingers, and smiled. "Do I really need to tell you what's become of him, or can you live with an assumption?"

"You killed him." Delilah's amber eyes blazed with anger. "He's was missing for three days before they found his body. You're disgusting Tom."

"Why thank you. I'm flattered, really." He flicked his wand to her chest once more, this time pressing into the lace ruffled of her blouse. "You know why I'm here."

"Put your wand in your pocket, I'll get you what you need." She turned, letting her ebony hair whip around in her face. She stomach dropped like a bag of stones. She approached the portrait behind the register, and knocked three times upon the frame. She muttered something as quietly as she could. The man in the portrait gave her a sad glance before swinging back to reveal a decaying staircase, ending in blackness. "Follow me, then."

She felt her way down the cellar steps, all the while wishing for her wand again. The light streaming from Tom's wand behind her merely cast shadows on the steps. She reached the floor, hit a post, and a pair of torches burst to life.

Old bookcases held old books, amongst every corner of the room. stacked high to the ceiling, mounds of old texts, their seams fraying, their pages yellow and torn. The cellar, with its cold, dank air, gave off the smell of mildew like a fine mist. Delilah watched as her former schoolmate moved not a muscle, kept his wand aloft, but scanned the cache with a schoolboy fascination she never thought possible of him. Slowly, a light grew at the tip of his wand, and he moved forward. His pale fingers left a clean trail through dusty covers. He turned.

"You have it?"

"It depends on what 'it' is. You've got to be more specific."

He glared at her. "Find it."

"Find what? You always had the bad habit of assuming people knew what you were talking about, Tom, it drove us crazy-"

"Grindelwald's Vade Macum, if you _please_." He hissed, the light of his wand tip pulsing like the beat of his cold heart.

Of course it was there, how could it not be? After Grindelwald's defeat her grandfather had discovered the Vade Macum, the unfinished manuscript of warfare and deception. The book would be greater than that of Machiavelli, if only it were complete. Grandfather had hid it away for years, telling no soul of his discovery, reading it by torchlight in the secret cellar when the shop was vacant. The unnoticeable leather notebook now sat tucked away in a false cover, protected from any unworthy eyes. Any unknowing hand could pass over it and not realize its significance, and that's exactly what was occurring. At this very moment, the Vade Macum sat three inches from Tom Riddle's curious fingers. Delilah's heart sank.

"Fresh out Tom," She said quickly, avoiding his biting eyes. "Sorry I couldn't-"

Her back hit the wall, her neck was wrung. His fingers squeezed the air from her throat. She clawed at his arm to no avail.

"I _know _it's here." He whispered through gritted teeth. His eyes were so malicious, Delilah thought them scarlet. She gasped for air. "I know you're lying. It's here. Tell me where, or you won't survive to see me take it."

She knew he was not bluffing, her heart told her so. It hammered against the walls of her chest, trying desperately to cling to life. Her lungs were screaming for air. Memories filled her mind; her entering the compartment on the Hogwarts express to find a pale, sad little boy who pressed his face to the cold glass window. Sitting beside the lake watching the stars fill the sky, as Tom and Mason flipped through a stolen textbook. Her grandfather lighting the torches, bringing her hand to rest on a plain leather book, and feeling something dreadful flow through her fingers. Her grandfather telling her to keep it safe, that it should never leave the shelf. Her grandfather telling her stories of what would happen if she did, a bloody trail of everyone, Mason's obituary, Tom bursting into her shop, holding her at wand point-

"I'd. rather. die." She vowed, the only words she could manage. His grimace warped to a malicious smile. His grip tightened. Her vision turned red.

"So be it." A second longer, and she dropped to the ground, nothing but another corpse along his road, her amber eyes glassy without fear. Tom's gaze lingered only for a moment. He stepped toward a bookcase, and ran his fingers upon the book spines. He removed a book with a double leather cover. His fingers felt electric. He sighed. "So many deaths for a schoolboy's journal. We shall see how many more you bring."

Tom Riddle took his leave, the book tucked under his arm.


End file.
